THE NEW YORKER Slinky an coiled up in it- self, picture books, draw- ing tablets, and remnants of a hundred miniature zoos, forts, shopping cen- ters, and such, the pieces recombined in Toby's imagination to form the characters of some dire cosmopolitan epic. I burrow deep into my notebook as my sister-in- law pulls out the old Modern Library Giant edition of "Ulysses," the orange jacket encased in plastic. She maintains the reading level of an aca- demic but is hurt if you ask why she doesn't do something besides be mar- ried to my brother. Or she would be hurt if I dared ask. I've delved into "Ulysses" so often I re- cently took it up in Italian to keep the quest venture- some. "Ulisse," translat- ed with astonishing re- sourcefulness by Giulio de Angelis. It comes complete with notes and commentary, just as I do. Yet my sister-in-law knows it better than I, can even recite the chapter titles in order. She holds absolutely still when she reads. Toby ignores us, digging, patting, piling. A grand, circular moat. A lump of sand in the center. Flags at the perimeter. Soldiers, rustics, exotic ani- mals, and Hollywood extraterrestrials lining up to get in. Toby growls to himself as he works, like a dog fussing at a sock. "I'm making a sand tower," he announces at one point. When my sister-in-law excuses her- self to ready dinner, Toby and I dart suspicious glances at each other. He waits till she disappears over the dunes, then says, "Do you want to help me dribble? " "Sure. " He hands me a pail and leads the way to the sea. "Look out for octopus," he warns. He's going to grouch at me, I know. He always does. "Y ou fill it with water," he says. "It has to be just right. Not like that!" He keeps pushing me. 1 11 - f'JJF 27 "In this city, Jack, you learn to respect the pedestrian." . . "Like this," he says. It takes me eight dips to satisfy him; apparently the water has to fill the pail tight to the rim without spilling. How often in this life one must negotiate a walk along the blade when the topic at hand is absolutely nothing at all. How often one plays one's life for trivial stakes. With certain people, everything matters. "Now, watch," says Toby. This is dribbling: you ease the bot- tom end of the pail upward, leading the water to plop onto the sand, cre- ating a mason's effect on the walls of your fortress. Y ou decorate your power. "Now you," says Toby, with a sense of challenge. "Why don't you show me again? I don't have the feel of it yet." Growling, he grabs my pail and throws it off to the side "I didn't like that water," he explains. I return to my story, a sad tale of growing up and pulling away in a small Southern town. Toby busies himself with his dribbling. In the city, the scene is fury, speed, and ice, sheer ice. Holding your own, you may accidentally alienate one of the four or five most influential people in your professional or social or ro- mantic life, and you may spend years working off the blunder. But on the beach nothing happens, and everything is forgivable. The happy time crawls past. You can't go wrong "Hey, Toby, what's on for dinner?" I ask. Toby looks out at the sea. "No, there won't be any dinner for us at all. Can birds swim?" "Why won't there be dinner?" "M y daddy is mad at Mommy, and they aren't going to feed us. I heard them crashing last night, so that means they're mad at someone. Do they like you?" "Your mother does." "Is she your sister?" "N o. Your dad is my brother." "I don't think he likes us." Toby's dog comes snorting up the beach from the west: a large terrier who moves with the frozen despair of an old man and the mild curiosity of a baby, named, by the child, with a child's logic, Tober. "Get away, Tober!" Toby